Spilling Guts
by Tales To Tell
Summary: After several weeks, Sherlock finally seeks out Molly to apologize for the events in The Final Problem. Unfortunately, she is more attentive to a corpse.


**Spilling Guts**

Sherlock opens the door to the morgue and steps in just beyond the entrance. He sees Molly working on a corpse that's splayed open with its organs on various trays around it. She doesn't turn around and greet him first like she usually does. She's engrossed in her work. Sherlock saunters closer, hands in his pockets, trying to look nonchalant.

"Hello, Molly."

There's a delay between his greeting and her response, which he finds quite jarring. Even though she doesn't say his name with any peculiarity of tone, it's apparent that acknowledging his presence is low on her priorities. She doesn't even pause what she's doing. Not a look or a smile in his direction. It's disconcerting. He notes with curiosity that his palms are starting to sweat. He wipes them on his pocket lining.

"So," he says, "what are you working on? Any good corpses in?"

Another ever so slight delay.

"No murders, if that's what you mean. Just natural causes today." Molly gestures at the corpse in front of her. "Female, mid-forties, aortic dissection."

"Oh, that's good," says Sherlock.

Molly's mouth twitches.

"I mean it's too bad," Sherlock amends. "Not that it isn't murder, but that she's dead. But it's good she wasn't murdered. I mean, at least…right?"

No response at all.

Sherlock scratches his head then walks around the room picking things up and putting them down, occasionally glancing back at Molly. His palms are now so sweaty he nearly drops a cup of urine. He wipes his hands on his sleeves and tries to control his increasing heart rate and overactive glands, which he blames on thyroid malfunction.

"Did you need something?" asks Molly, putting a liver on a scale and noting its weight. "A pair of eyeballs maybe? I've got a pair with heterochromia."

Sherlock perks up at her initiative to speak to him. "Oh. No, thank you. I've got a dozen in the fridge at home." He chuckles. Molly doesn't.

"What then?"

"What?"

"What do you need?"

"Need?"

"Why are you here, Sherlock?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Why. Your purpose for coming."

"Purpose. Oh. No reason. Just…stopping by."

Molly shrugs and continues her work. Done with the liver. Weighing the heart now. Making more notes. Sherlock watches her, the way she handles the dead pieces. Professional and reverent, but not sentimental. She seems completely unaffected by his presence. Steady voice. Steady hands. Steady breathing. Even her ponytail hasn't flinched. It's like he's not even there. Definitely not the behaviour of someone suffering recent heartbreak standing in the same room with the breaker. Maybe she's over it. Over him. The phone call made her finally give up on him. Unsurprising. It's been how long since then? And he's put off speaking to her till today. Cowardice, yes. John's been telling him off about it at least once a day. Today, for some reason, probably that shot of alcohol he had for breakfast, he decided to be brave. But here he is now, still mucking about.

He shakes himself loose then blurts out, "Molly, I came to…about the, uh…"

"If it's about the phone call, you don't have to apologize," she says, sparing him the effort. "I heard what happened."

His eyes narrow a fraction. John had made it clear he wasn't going to smooth things over for him. "You did?"

"Your brother told me."

Sherlock tries to imagine a conversation between Molly and Mycroft. Fails. He'll get the details later. "I'm sorry. I should've spoken to you sooner."

"No worries. You had important things going on. It's fine."

Her dismissive tone makes his chest twinge. "You're important to me, Molly."

Her mouth pulls tight for half a second and then her face goes blank again. Sherlock struggles to interpret it. Her expressions were once so simple to decipher. Now, there are way too many ways to read them. Did she believe him? Did she not? Did she even care? Of course she cared. Even a cock like him could see that.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Molly." He watches her stretch out a length of intestine and waits for her pardon.

"You didn't hurt me, Sherlock."

Sherlock analyzes her face again and is again perplexed. "I don't think that's true."

Molly shrugs. "Why should it hurt? I knew it was just another game. It's always a game. This time it was just someone else's."

Sherlock feels her words like a blow to the gut. He knows it's true. He's always hurting Molly. Playing with her feelings. Using them to his advantage.

Molly looks up from the corpse guts. Finally giving Sherlock undivided attention. "Anyway, I should apologize to you for making you say it first." Her lips do something of a smile, maybe. "It was mean, and you were just trying to keep me from getting blown up. I nearly got myself killed." The smile-ish thing sags. "Or I didn't, since there weren't actually any bombs, but there could've been. Still trying to figure out how the cameras got there. It's scary. There was one in my shower."

Sherlock cringes. Molly looks more annoyed than disturbed.

"Anyway, sorry for manipulating you. And thanks, by the way, for sort of saving me. I know it must've been unpleasant having to say that."

"Yes. It was. I hated it."

Molly's mouth twitches then goes blank again. She turns back to the corpse, digging through its innards with an audible squish.

Sherlock's eyes widen. "No! I didn't hate saying…those words…to _you_. I hated being _forced_."

"Yeah. Well, so did I."

"And I am truly sorry about that, Molly."

Grating silence follows. Sherlock's heart starts banging in his chest, its vigor increasing every passing second.

"It was still nice to hear," Molly finally says, her lips an indecipherable curve. "You're such a good liar. I almost believed you the second time."

If not for the tears glistening in her eyes and the waver in her voice, her façade would have been perfect. It pains Sherlock to realize that because of him she's had so much practice masking her feelings. She deserves more than he's done for her for all she's done for him. He steps between her and the body parts and takes her guts-smeared gloved hands in his. "I wasn't lying to you, Molly. You _are_ my friend. I do…I do—"

She rips her hands out of his grasp. "Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop." She gestures around the room. "There aren't any hidden bombs in here now, are there?"

"No."

"Then, don't say it again. Please." She takes off her gloves and tosses them into a bin, then puts on a new pair.

Sherlock watches her with a troubled expression, trying to figure out what he did wrong. Navigating sentiment is still so new. He can't seem to get a grasp on it. "Are you alright now?" he asks cautiously.

"Never better."

Her tone indicates otherwise, but Sherlock doesn't say so. "I mean, that day. You seemed ill. You were making tea."

"Oh." She waves him off. "Just a cold. I'm fine now."

"That's good."

"And my cousin passed away, but it's alright. She'd been sick for a while. I expected it."

"My condolences."

"Thanks. Listen. I have to finish up here."

Sherlock stiffens. "Right. Sorry. I'm disturbing you." He about-faces and heads to the door.

Molly gets back to work. "Wash your hands," she calls as he passes the sink.

"Right." He turns back and washes the muck off his hands, then hurries out of the room.

Sherlock steps into the hallway nearly at a run and begins to pace. At some point, he takes out his phone and starts typing a message to Mycroft.

 _What did you say to Molly Hooper?_ _-SH_

Moments later Mycroft texts back.

 _That she should stay at a hotel for a few days while my people swept her flat for cameras and explosives. -MH_

 _And? -SH_

 _You know I hate texting, Sherlock. Call me if you want to talk. -MH_

Sherlock calls Mycroft.

Mycroft picks up. "So, you've finally gathered the nerve, brother mine. Congratulations."

"What did she say?" asks Sherlock.

"Though I hope it didn't take you the whole bottle to gather it."

" _Mycroft_."

"She agreed. We swept her flat. It's secure. Now under my surveillance. What's the matter? You sound like you're pacing."

"Did you explain the phone call?"

"I gave her the gist."

"What did you tell her?

"Enough to convey that you didn't tear her heart out just to be an ass. No need to thank me."

"How did she react? Was she upset?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you were there."

"So was she."

"Mmm." Sherlock switches hands to wipe his palms. The cruddy white tiles blur under his feet.

"Sherlock, I know you're outside the morgue. Just go back in and talk to her."

"I can't. She kicked me out. I don't think she wants to talk to me."

"She might think the same of you."

"Why would she think that? I came all this way to talk to her."

"After how many weeks of silence? Might she not think you were forced to see her by some need to procure specimens or that you're under pressure from interfering friends? Perhaps she was trying to spare you discomfort."

Sherlock scoffs. "No one forced me to come. I wanted to. I've just been busy."

Sherlock hears the creaking of a leather office chair. Mycroft shifting his weight, assuming his attentive posture.

"Adjusting?" asks Mycroft.

At his somber tone, Sherlock stops in his tracks. He runs a hand through his hair, pondering and abandoning evasive maneuvers, then answers, "Yes."

"If you need help…" says Mycroft.

"I can handle it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, you know…"

"I know."

"I worry."

"I know."

Mycroft sighs into the phone. His seat creaks again. "Ok."

Sherlock leans against a wall and breathes deeply. He wonders if there's such a thing as a heart palace to keep emotions organized, now that he's so painfully aware of having them. Maybe he could make one.

"Sherlock," says Mycroft, interrupting his attempt.

"Yeah."

"Just go and talk to her. Try being honest."

Sherlock murmurs noncommittally and hangs up. He stares at the morgue entrance and imagines various scenarios of what could happen if he went back in. At least he probably won't get slapped this time. She might chuck a kidney.

He ruffles his hair then pushes off the wall and goes back inside.

All the guts are out of sight. Molly's stitching up the corpse.

"Forget something?" she asks in a not so pleasant, but not entirely standoffish tone.

"The eyeballs," he says hesitantly, "if you're still offering."

"Alright. Just let me finish this."

He stands aside and lets her work in peace. Sweaty hands hiding in his now soggy pockets. While he's waiting, he delves into his mind palace to extrapolate the effects of several potential future utterances. Next thing he knows, there's a hand in his face holding a jar of two different-colored eyes floating in clear liquid.

"Thanks." He takes the jar and aims a smile at Molly, but she's already headed for the door. His heart starts banging again. His guts protest her every step. "Actually, Molly. I didn't come for the eyeballs."

She stops walking away and turns to face him. "Can it wait till tomorrow? I just got cleaned up."

"It can't wait."

Annoyance flashes across her face.

Sherlock feels his insides tearing. "I don't want any body parts, Molly."

She crosses her arms. "What do you want then?"

Sherlock scans the jar of eyeballs. It looks like it was prepared a while ago. Some days ago, actually. He wonders if, maybe, Molly had been saving them for him. Is it too cocky to think so? Would it be bad to ask? He decides not to. He puts the jar down, and approaches her. She stands her ground as he gets closer, only tilting her head up.

"I regret having hurt you, Molly," says Sherlock.

"I told you it's alright."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not just the phone call. Everything."

Her brows furrow and the corners of her lips pull tight. "Look, Sherlock, you really don't have to—"

"Molly." He takes one of her hands in both of his and locks eyes with hers. His heart's still pounding. Palms still sweaty. He should've wiped them before taking her hand. She doesn't seem disturbed by their clamminess. Maybe because her hand is cold. He sandwiches it between his to share his warmth. "When I said…those words… There's a reason the second time was more convincing."

Tension seizes Molly's arm like a spring about to snap. Her eyes squint into Sherlock's, guarded, searching. "Which is?"

Sherlock thinks of backtracking, saying _I don't know_ , and playing the heartless bastard again. He knows Molly would play along and let him get away with it. But that's not him anymore. It never was, apparently. Now that he knows the truth, he wants to tell it."Sincerity," he says, as sincerely as he can.

Molly takes a moment to register the word. He sees the moment she does, as her face morphs from scrutiny to rage. She yanks her hand away, but Sherlock holds on to it.

"Let go," says Molly, a threat clear in her tone.

Sherlock refuses. Molly slaps him, but he keeps his hold.

She glares at him through tears leaking from her eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you, Molly. Please, just listen." He puts her hand on his chest so she can feel how fast his heart is beating. "I don't know what this means, but at the thought of losing you, it gets like this."

Molly glares at the pile of their hands over his coat. "I can't feel anything."

Sherlock shoves open his coat and presses her palm closer to his skin. "Now?"

She purses her lips and looks over his shoulder. At the wall clock. Sherlock counts the seconds as she takes his pulse. By ten, her brows unfurl, and her eyes soften. The ache in his chest starts to fade.

"They might not be exactly what you feel for me," he says, "but I do have feelings for you, likely categorizable as some definition of…the l word."

Molly looks back at their hands, then up at his face. Sherlock gets the feeling he's being read. He wonders what she sees.

"As a friend. I know," she says.

"A good friend, Molly. A dear friend."

She nods.

Sherlock releases her hand. It lingers over his heart then slowly withdraws.

"That's pretty fast," Molly says. Her lips do that smile-ish thing, but it's more smile this time. "Why tell me this now?"

Sherlock starts playing with his pockets. "You're always honest with me. I thought this once I'd try the same."

Molly smirks. "Just this once."

He shake-nods.

Molly reaches up and gently rubs the cheek she slapped. "Sorry about that."

"Never mind," says Sherlock. "I probably deserved it for something."

Molly seems about to contradict him, but doesn't. She removes her hand. Sherlock misses its soothing coolness, but his heart at least feels better. Things feel fixed or at least on the mend. And his palms are no longer imitating water fountains.

Molly steps back, but this time, not away. "Well, my shift is over, so I guess I should get out of here."

"Right."

She turns to the door then turns around again, a true smile blossoming on her lips. "Thanks for coming to talk to me, Sherlock. I appreciate it."

He smiles back. "Thanks for listening."

"Don't forget your eyes."

"Oh. Yes." He retrieves the jar from the counter and puts it in a deep, padded pocket of his coat. When he looks up, Molly's still standing by the door smiling at him.

"Bye," she says and pushes it open.

As she's stepping through, Sherlock impulsively calls her back. "Molly."

She spins around again. "Yes?"

Sherlock stands up straight, adjusts his coat, interlocks his fingers in front of him, and clears his throat. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

Molly is silent for several seconds. Sherlock fears he's pressed his luck too far. Maybe he's overestimated the simplicity of forgiveness. But then Molly smiles and puts him at ease. "Sure."

Sherlock grins and follows her to the door.

As he gets close, Molly's pleasant smile curves to mischief. "Milk. No sugar. I'll be in my flat." Then she steps out into the hall and lets the door slam in his face.

For a moment, Sherlock stands there stunned, staring at the closed door. Then he bursts out laughing and follows Molly out.


End file.
